Reaper (8 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

JUNE 17
TH

Linh Briggs, the wife of Sergeant Walter Briggs, escorted her seven year-old daughter, Hao, from the substation’s conference room where everyone sat watching the TV screen.  The day before, her daughter and husband picked her up at one of the decontamination centers where Linh had been taken after her office building was evacuated due to radiation.  The tents, the disheveled people, the fire fighters in their protective gear, the DHS guards with their weapons strapped across their chests, had frightened Hao so much she had nightmares.  Linh feared these new images on the screen would make things even worse for her daughter.

A blond woman stood with microphone in-hand at a police barricade.  In the background, over her left shoulder, there were ambulances and fire engines lined up, waiting.  Closer to the camera, a DHS police officer wearing a black ball cap, dark glasses, holding a rifle at port arms, and outfitted in a black battle dress uniform, stood stone-faced, with his feet splayed, facing the camera.

“At approximately fifteen minutes past the noon hour, a device, a bomb, some refer to as a dirty bomb, was detonated on the Las Vegas Strip near the intersection of Russell Road and Las Vegas Boulevard.  Hundreds of people were in the immediate area at the time, so causalities are estimated to be over one hundred dead, with many more injured.  Radioactivity was quickly detected …”

Max’s phone rang, and he stepped from the room so as not to disturb the others.  It had been ringing almost non-stop for the last hour.  The total now was sixty-one people asking for shelter, ranging in age from seventy-two to three months.  This, of course, included Anna and Louis Espinosa and their three kids, Raha Ahmadi with her three kids, Will and Greta Mason and their two boys, and Steve and Beth with their son Gavin.  This particular call was from an officer named Justin Peavey, who had an unusual problem.  He was asking for shelter for his ex-wife and their two kids, as well as for him and his current wife, Melanie.

“Jeeze, do they at least get along?” Max asked.

“Well, let me put it this way, they get along better with each other than either of them get along with me.”

“You don’t have any more ex-wives do you?”

“Not at the moment.  But I can’t promise you that won’t change.”

Max laughed.  “Okay, well, I’ll leave their names at the gate.  Steve’s there right now.  He’ll let them in.  Just make sure the adults bring ID. Here’s the thing, though, I don’t have a budget, so everyone has to kick in.  Tell them to bring their own blankets and personal items; you know, soap, toothpaste, stuff like that.  Sleeping is on cots, unless you bring your own bedding.  Also, everything is community — bathrooms, kitchen, all the rooms.  Some people have brought camp trailers or RVs for privacy and are staying out in the parking lot.  One family even brought a tent they pitched inside one of the open rooms.  A few others are just crapping out on the carpet in the second floor cubicles.  Another thing; there are just too many people here to share the kitchen for meals, which means tomorrow night we’re gonna start community meals so we don’t have ten people trying to cook different meals all at the same time.  That means we’re going to have to start collecting for food.  Ten dollars a head per day or seventy per week; only way we can do it.  And everyone is going to have to do something around here to keep things clean and operational, too.  Any problem with that?”

“Even me?  I have to work, too?  I’m working twelve-hour shifts as it is.”

“You’re breaking my heart, Peavey.  Yeah, even you.  It’s the only way we can make this work.  Listen, you can take a turn for a couple of hours on the front gate.  It’s easy, nothing to it.”

Pause …

“Hey, look, this is voluntary,” Max said.  “Nobody is twisting your arm.  Don’t come if you don’t want to.  I don’t care.”

That came out harsher than I meant it to sound, Max thought.

“Yeah, okay, they’ll be there.  Sometime tonight.  Before dark.”

Max walked back inside the conference room.

“
In related news, the Department of Homeland Security served a search warrant, the first in California issued by a federal magistrate under the new anti-terrorism laws, on a resident in Morgan Hill, California, a town just south of San Jose.  There, authorities took into custody a man named Malcolm Polanski, who is the alleged head of the Bear Flag Patriots Brigade, a terrorist group.  He and unnamed others are suspected of conspiracy to commit a terrorist act.  An anonymous source at the scene, who was not authorized to give a statement, indicated that during the search of Mr. Polanski’s home, firearms, a large amount of ammunition, and a small amount of a controlled substance was recovered.”

At this point, the camera view pulled back from its close-up of the on-scene reporter, revealing a sixtyish, potbellied, barefoot man in the background, wearing blue jeans and a tee-shirt, being led away from the front of a house in handcuffs, while sporting a confused look on his face.  He was being escorted by two DHS police officers.  As the three of them got closer to the camera and their faces came into view, Max recognized Tattoo and Shorty as the two DHS officers walking with him.

Yeah, right, Max thought.  My ass they found a small quantity of a controlled substance.  This of course reminded him of his encounter with Tattoo and Shorty, which in turn reminded him of the fact that Blogger hadn’t yet sent the photos to him.  He made a mental note to give Blogger a call.

The station announced a commercial break, and the scene immediately went to a beer ad.

Max felt a warm hand on his shoulder.  “How’re things going so far?”

It was Myra.

He turned, gave her a hug and kiss.  In his ear she whispered, “Can I talk to you outside a second?”

They stepped out and she said, “You have room for one more?  When I’m not at work, maybe I can help out with medical.”

“It’s camping conditions; cots and sleeping bags.”

“No problem, I’m an outdoor kinda girl, but I also just happen to have one of those queen-size, pump-up mattresses.  It’s big enough for two.”  She raised her eyebrows and smiled.

“Eww, I like that deal. I’ll even help you move in,” Max said.  “Hey, in a couple of minutes I wanna check out the neighborhood to see what’s around us and then shoot over to Costco to pick some things up.  You’re welcome to come with.  Maybe we can stop at your place on the way back and load up whatever you need.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Max saw the TV switch back from the commercial break to the news, so he stepped back into the room.  “I just want to hear this first.”

“On the phone with us now is Gregory House, the attorney for Malcolm Polanski.  Mr. House ….”

“Yes, thank you for having me.”

“So, do you have a comment for us regarding your client’s arrest today on charges of conspiracy to commit a terrorist act and drug charges?”

“Well, these charges are simply preposterous, that’s all there is to it.  We’re only left to guess what this foolish business is all about because they aren’t telling us anything, claiming national security, but what we suspect is they somehow intercepted an email he sent some friends.  In this email he expressed the opinion that Americans are witnessing the destruction of our constitutional way of life and every able-bodied man and woman should arm themselves in case they have to defend their rights against a government run amuck.  He started the message ‘To all Bear Flag Patriots’ because the bear, ah, it’s on California’s flag, right?  It’s a grizzly I think.  Yeah.  Anyway, apparently his message is a popular one and once it went viral some pissant federal government functionary saw it and, well, you can see for yourself the result.  And I might add, what’s being done to him by his own government is validation of his point of view.”

“What about these other alleged charges, guns and drugs?”

“Regarding the drugs; my client is a respected sixty-two year old dentist, a member of his community, and I’ve known him and his wife for over twenty years.  There is no way he uses drugs.  About guns, yes he owns guns, just like millions of other Americans do.  Hell, I’ve shot skeet with him on several occasions myself.  There is nothing illegal about it.  This whole thing is completely overblown by the Justice Department.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. House.  It’s certainly a story we’ll follow-up on.  Now back to Las Vegas, the scene of the latest terrorist bombing.”

Max and Myra, driving Max’s truck, stopped at the front gate, signed out, and told Steve to be expecting the arrival of Justin Peavey’s wife and ex-wife.  Max also told Steve about the dentist being arrested on charges including the possession of a controlled substance and how he saw Tattoo and Shorty
perp-walking
the guy from the scene.

“You know what?” Steve said.  “We should have kicked both their asses while we had the chance and thrown them in county.  Which reminds me; I got a call from the lieutenant in Narco, and he says he’s getting questions about our case on those assbites and is wondering where the photos are.”  Steve spit tobacco into a paper coffee cup.

“Yeah, okay, let me check right now while it’s on my mind,” Max said.

Using his cellphone, he called the number Blogger had given him.  After listening for a couple of seconds, he disconnected, brought the number back up on the screen, and checked it against his notes.  He had dialed it correctly.

“I got one of those messages saying the number’s no good.”

“Oh, oh,” Steve said.

“Yeah, hope not.  I’ll try to swing by his place to see if he’s there.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Across the street from the substation was another empty commercial building, with two more nearby, all casualties of the lingering great recession.  Driving Great Oaks Parkway toward Santa Teresa Boulevard, Max and Myra passed an undeveloped area with big rigs parked along the street, including one that had a huge piece of heavy equipment with a scoop on the front of it, chained to a flatbed.

When they reached Santa Teresa they turned left, drove to Bernal Road, and turned left again.  Two blocks down was a shopping center and Max, who wasn’t very familiar with the area, wanted to see what resources were there he might call upon, should he need them.

As he turned into the shopping center, which hosted a large grocery store, several fast food restaurants, a Starbucks, gas station, an office supply store, and a gym, he saw two people, not together, running from the parking lot toward the buildings.  He back-tracked their approximate path and noticed several vehicles stopped in one of the parking lanes in the middle of the lot and a fight between ten to fifteen people going on.  Some of the men fighting were shirtless and white, while the others appeared to be Latinos.

Max automatically turned toward the commotion and stepped hard on the gas.  As he did, Myra braced her hand against the dashboard.

Not but a second later, he heard gunshots and saw the group scatter.

The shots caused Max to brake hard.

As he continued to watch the scene, he saw one of the white males standing at the back of a red Chevy Camaro, fire several shots from a pistol at the smaller group of Latinos, who were also getting into two nearby parked cars.  One of the Latinos, who looked to be in his very early twenties, leaned into a car, pulled out a sawed-off, single-shot, shotgun, and fired back.

More shots were fired as the cars sped from the scene.  Max and Myra followed at a distance as one of the cars, the Camaro, drove toward the buildings on its way out of the parking lot.  It was Max’s intention at this point to just follow and report until on-duty officers could make an arrest.

The Camaro made a left at the end of the row and accelerated.  As Max watched, he saw a CHP motorcycle officer approaching from the opposite direction.  The officer, apparently seeing the Camaro coming at him at a high rate of speed, made a sharp right into the parking lot and immediately began a U-turn maneuver, presumably so he could fall in behind the car when it passed.  But the Camaro stopped, an arm came out the driver’s window, and several shots were fired at the officer, who dumped the bike, trapping his right leg under it.  The car took off again at a high rate of speed.

Max thought about continuing to follow the Camaro, and even started that way, but he knew his first responsibility now was to check on the injured officer.

Myra was already grabbing her new trauma bag from the rear seat, the old one contaminated by radioactivity the day before, when Max brought his truck to a stop near the officer.

Max could see the officer was conscious and feebly trying to get his leg out from under the motorcycle.  So, while Myra pulled, Max lifted the bike.  Once the CHP officer was out, Myra began to assess his injuries, discovering one of the rounds hit his left elbow while another hit his ballistic vest.

While on the phone with dispatch, Max limped toward the store fronts to check for any other injured.  The first set of shots fired by the occupants of the Camaro, were in the general direction of the shopping center, concentrated around Starbucks.

And sure enough, as Max feared, one of the bullets passed through the bicep of a woman sitting at a table outside the coffee shop, penetrated her side, and exited out her back.  She was being attended to by a woman friend, so Max pointed out Myra to this woman, told her Myra was a paramedic, directed her to inform Myra about her more seriously injured friend, and to stay with the officer until additional help arrived.

It was only five minutes before fire fighters arrived on scene and seven before other uniformed officers showed up.  It was over an hour, though, before Max and Myra could get back on their way.  Once back in Max’s truck, they just sat there a moment, staring out the window.

Finally, Myra asked, “What was all that about?”

“Got me, but I think we’re going to see a lot more of it,” Max replied.  He reached over, took her hand, and felt her squeeze hard in return.